UC-NRLF 


N627 


POEMS 


MEREDITH  NICHOLSON 


I  N  D  I  AN  AP  OLI  5 

THE  BOBBS'MERMl  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1906 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 

APRIL 


TO  JAMES  WHIT  CO  MB  RILEY 

YOU  came  when  song  itself  was  tame, 
Though  many  strove  with  idle  aim 
Like  moths  about  the  sacred  -flame 

On  ignorant  wing; 

You  scorned,  in  beaten  trails  of  fame, 
To  walk  and  sing. 

You  borrowed  not  Apollo's  sign, 

Affixed  to  many  a  lifeless  line; 

You  sought  not  the  dim  shadowy  Nine 

Obscure,  remote: 
You  wove  the  human  and  divine 

In  one  clear  note! 

You  would  not  strive  with  them  that  deign 
To  seek  on  chaff-strewn  floors  for  grain, 
And  even  for  trampled  husks  are  fain, 

But,  in  the  field, 
You  strove  with  infinite  care  to  gain 

Life's  golden  yield. 


M110219 


You  sought  no  high  and  strenuous  key 
To  mark  your  new  blithe  minstrelsy, 
Invoked  no  shrine  on  bended  knee, 

In  Greece  or  Rome, 
But,  all  ungyved,  your  spirit  free 

Sang  most  of  home! 

In  the  lone  farm-house  you  laid  bare 
The  drama  of  its  toil  and  care, 
But  making  love  triumphant  there 

Rise  strong  and  sweet, 
Like  herbs  that  scent  the  summer  air, 

Bruised  'neath  our  feet. 

'Twas  your  voice  sang  the  yet  unsung 

Faith  of  a  people  brave  and  young 

To  whose  rude  speech  a  wild  tang  clung, 

Of  clean  earth  born, — 
The  variant  Saxon  of  our  tongue 

You  did  not  scorn! 


You  heard,  in  dewy  haunts  of  spring, 
The  treble  note  of  childhood  ring, — 
The  homing  stroke  you  taught  its  wing 

That  you,  again, 
Might  woo  that  vagrant  note  and  sing 

Once  more  its  strain. 

Not  mine  the  right  to  sing  your  praise 
Nor  twine  for  you  the  deathless  bays, 
But  mine  to  walk  in  lighted  ways 

Lured  by  your  rhyme, 
Glad  for  the  faith  through  faithless  days 

You  shield  from  Time. 

And  you  still  hold,  as  at  the  start, 
That  which  God  set  for  you  apart — 
Faith,  Love  and  Trust,  that  in  your  heart 

Keep  its  song  pure, 
And  the  magician  gift  of  art, 

And  these  endure! 


THANKS  ARE  DUE  TO  THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY,  THE 
CENTURY  MAGAZINE,  HARPER'S  NEW  MONTHLY 
MAGAZINE,  AND  THE  READER  FOR  PERMISSION 
TO  REPUBLISH  CERTAIN  POEMS  IN  THIS  VOLUME 


CONTENTS 

Aileen  108 

April  Easter,  An  24 

Asphodel  25 

At  the  Monument  97 

Bellona  58 

"Bless  Thou  the  Guns"  53 

Blind  Boys,  The  102 

Charm  10 

Chords  13 

Cuba  50 

Dead  Archer,  The  87 

Derelict  76 

Earth,  The  43 

Escheat  32 

For  a  Pioneer's  Memorial  68 

From  Bethlehem  to  Calvary  63 

God  Save  the  State!  41 

Grace  Chimes  75 

Heart  of  the  Bugle,  The  45 

Horatio  at  Elsinore  99 

Horns,  The  56 

In  the  Great  Pastures  21 

In  the  Street  104 

"In  Winter  I  Was  Born"  37 

Ireland  70 

John  Tyndall  85 

Labor  and  Art  101 

Love's  Music  29 

Marjorie  98 


CONTENTS — CONTINUED 

Mea  Culpa  65 

Memory  82 

Miriam:  At  a  Concert  106 

New  Year's  Collect  61 

News  66 

Old  Guidon,  An  44 

Orchards  By  the  Sea  69 

Prayer  of  the  Hill-Country,  A  16 

Psalms  in  the  Mountains,  The  19 

Shadow  Lines  34 

Shadow  of  the  Rockies,  A  22 

"She  Gathers  Roses"  92 

Shiloh  48 

Simplicity  23 

Spirit  of  the  Mountains,  The  18 

Tenant,  A  60 

To  a  Debutante  28 

To  the  Seasons  110 

Unmapped  83 

Valley  of  Vision,  The  9 

Voices  of  Children  95 

Watching  the  World  Go  By  73 

Wayward  Muse,  The  79 

West  30 

Where  Four  Winds  Meet  1 

Wind  at  Whitsuntide,  The  4 

Wind  Patrol,  The  14 

Winter  Wind  in  the  Rockies,  The  39 

Wide  Margins  12 

Youth  and  Winter  35 


POEMS 


WHERE  FOUR  WINDS  MEET 

FROM  homes  beyond  the  farthest  space 
The  winds  come  to  their  trysting-place. 
Swiftly  from  north,  east,  south  and  west 
Assembled  on  some  lonely  crest, 
Or  gathered  where  the  murmuring  pines 
Have  summoned  them  by  secret  signs, 
They  tell  of  journeys  over  seas 
And  whisper  of  earth's  mysteries. 
They  know  why  strong  sap-currents  sing 
Through  northern  trees  in  earliest  spring, 
And  why  bold  flowers  put  bravely  forth 
In  snowy  woodlands  of  the  north. 
Such  things  he  learns  whose  guided  feet 
May  find  the  place  where  four  winds  meet. 

It  is  not  true  the  winds  are  foes, 
Though  some  bring  buds  and  some  bring  snows ; 
For  they  divide  the  earth's  estate 

1 


:As :  friendly  :  kxb  gs  .might  arbitrate, 

And  each  is  sovereign  any  hour 

The  mighty  land  is  in  its  power. 

They  find  delight  in  bold  surprise 

And  would  defeat  man's  prophecies. 

Ships  put  not  forth,  seeds  are  not  sown 

Until  the  favoring  gales  have  blown; 

The  destinies  of  nations  wait 

The  winds  that  ruin  or  create. 

These  secret  things  he  learns  whose  feet 

May  find  the  place  where  four  winds  meet. 

Through  summer  woods  at  night's  high  tide 
Lone  winds  from  far  horizons  ride, — 
So  quickly  gone,  so  faint  of  wing, 
Ear  scarce  may  catch  their  whispering. 
And  no  one  knows  from  what  far  home 
Those  idle  messengers  may  roam, 
Nor  any  more  may  seek  to  gain 
Their  purpose  from  the  weather-vane! 
But  swift  those  tides  unchallenged  flow 
Where  only  silent  trees  bend  low — 


A  stir  of  leaves,  a  sudden  hush, 
A  thrill  runs  through  the  underbrush, 
Then,  he  who  runs  with  winged  feet, 
May  find  the  place  where  four  winds  meet! 

Now  I  have  sped  in  many  a  race 
To  find  this  secret  trysting-place ; 
North,  east,  south,  west  have  I  been  led, 
Sometimes  in  hope  but  oft  in  dread, 
Fearing  to  pause  yet  scorning  rest, 
Pursuing  ceaselessly  my  quest, 
For,  whether  on  the  land  it  be 
Or  foamy  meadow  of  the  sea 
I  find  at  last  the  tryst,  lo,  there 
The  tyrant  captains  of  the  air 
Shall  yield  to  me  each  plot  and  plan 
By  which  they  rule  the  world,  and  man 
Thenceforth  may  walk  with  careless  feet, 
Indifferent  where  the  four  winds  meet. 


M 


THE  WIND  AT  WHITSUNTIDE 

I 
AN  names  the  stars  across  the  gulfs  of  space 


And  calls  the  sea  to  tribute,  and  doth  mock 
The  storm  and  lightning  and  the  earthquake 

shock, 

And  lifts  from  lonely  peaks 
Toward  the  stars  his  still  triumphant  face; 
But  the  far-driven,  pathless  winds  of  God 
He  still  in  ignorance  seeks, 

Crying  his  whence  and  whither  with  vain  breath 
Where  in  soft  airs  the  tranquil  gardens  nod, 
Or  pondering  the  wind's  will 
Along  the  pine-hung  hill 

And  where  the  trumpet  seas  roll  round  the  gates 
of  death. 

II 

First  of  the  Blessed  Three, — 
The  adored,  august  and  mighty  Trinity — 
Jehovah  to  earth  came 


In  mystery  and  awe, 

And  gave  to  Israel  out  of  cloud  and  flame 

His  iron-harsh,  immitigable  law 

That  for  the  rough,  new-builded  world  was  meet. 

But  man  still  restless  yearned 

For  groves  of  peace  whose  springs  should 

bubble  sweet; 

Nor  smoking  altars  satisfied  his  need, 
Nor  fat  of  richest  pastures  sacrificed, 
And  Heaven  seemed  far  indeed, — 
A  fortress  grim  on  an  embattled  slope, 
Where  hotly  on  dull  eyes  the  shining  bastions 

burned. 

'Twas  then  the  Christ 
With  love  renewed  man's  hope, 
Bringing  the  ark  of  peace  down  from  the  skies, 
And  out  of  golden  deeds  uprearing  faith  anew; 
Nor  Sinai's  lightnings  blinded  more  man's  eyes, 
But  gentleness  was  crowned  and  meekness 

blessed, 

While  brighter  shone  the  goal 
To  mankind  seeking  rest — 

5 


The  long-sought  haven  of  the  laboring  soul, 
In  Christ  alone  possessed; 
And  down  the  ages  the  bright  marvel  grew 
That  what  is  just  and  beautiful  and  true 
Within  the  broad  dome  of  near  Heaven  lies. 

Ill 

Thus  of  the  Three 

The  high-ordained  mysterious  Trinity, 
Jehovah  and  the  Son 
Man's  need  hath  earthward  won; 
But  who  has  seen  or  heard 
The  last,  the  majestic  and  ineffable  One 
And  known  His  audible  word? 
To-night,  midway  of  seas, 

Out  of  the  star-hung  prairies  glad  with  corn, — 
Out  of  the  deep-pulsed,   steady   heart  of  Time, 
Out  of  the  golden  pillars  of  the  morn 
A  great  wind  thundered  by, 
Voicing  a  hymn  in  deep  sonorous  rhyme, 
And  tossed  in  billows  the  June-vestured  trees. 
Across  the  odorous,  sweet,  low-murmuring  night 

6 


I  marked  its  urgent  flight, 

Then  heard  its  laggard  legion  round  me  wake 

and  sigh. 

That  wind,  methought,  may  be 
Breath  of  the  brooding  and  exalted  One 
Who  cometh  in  secrecy, 

Far-ranging  the  bright  track  of  star  and  sun! 
Holier  is  earth  for  every  wind  that  blows ; 
The  challenged  ocean  'mid  its  tumult  sings 
Exultant  in  God's  might, 
And  on  the  mountain  height 
The  retreating  tempest  flings 
The  gleaming  vesture  of  divine  repose. 

IV 

O  Winds,  far-driven  and  lost 
In  the  uncharted  ether's  high  demesne, 
Com'st  thou  to  greet 

Earth  newly  with  the  tongues  of  Pentecost? 
Is't  thus  the  Paraclete, 
Veiled  from  earth's  sealed  eyes, 
Doth  from  high  Heaven  lean 

7 


Brooding-  o'er  earth  and  sea? 

O  Winds,  pour  over  me 

Out  of  thy  vast  inviolable  treasury 

Thy  winnowing,  cleansing  tide! 

Anoint  me  from  thy  azure  spaces  wide! 

Nearer  than  man's  surmise 

The  Spirit  of  Spirits  doth  round  about  us 

bide, — 

The  manifest  breath  and  presence  of  the  Three! 
Thus  doth  Jehovah  out  of  space 
Again  with  man  speak  face  to  face; 
And  thus  o'er  earth  Christ  breathes  again 
The  peace  of  the  Judean  plain, — 
The  hope  of  all  this  earth  may  be! 
And  thus  o'er  plains  and  hills 
The  tides  of  the  four  winds  flow ; 
Thus  the  glad  earth  thrills 
When  the  trumpets  of  Heaven  blow; 
And  messengers  earthward  winging 
On  marvelous  errands  fly; 
While  the  world-heart  wakes  to  singing 
And  the  Spirit  of  God  is  nigh! 

8 


THE  VALLEY  OF  VISION 
Isaiah  XXII,  1  and  5 

OVER  what  peaks  docs  it  lie,  the  wonderful 
Valley  of  Vision, 
Withholden  afar  in  the  realm  of  the  Spirit  of 

Rest? 

Is  it  a  verdurous  cleft  in  the  shadowy  moun 
tains  elysian, 

Hidden  by  mist  and  cloud  where  the  suns 
go  down  in  the  west? 

I  never  may  find  the  place,  the  wonderful 

Valley  of  Vision, 
Though  seeking  for  long  the  path  that  leads 

to  its  singing  streams ; 
The  mountains  unyielding  stand,   they  laugh  at 

my  search  in  derision, 

Yet  ever  in  faith  I  seek  the  hidden  Valley  of 
Dreams. 

9 


CHARM 

TT  is  a  presence  sweet  and  rare, 
-*>     A  something  oft  attained  by  Art, 
Yet  oft  possessed,  all  unaware, 

By  folk  of  simple  mind  and  heart. 

And  he  that  has  it  can  not  pass 
The  secret  on  with  gold  or  name; 

It  vanishes  like  dew  on  grass, 
Or  heat  that  hovers  over  flame. 

In  books  that  man  but  little  seeks, 
Neglected  or  forgotten  long, 

This  living  essence  dwells,  and  speaks 
In  happy  rhymes  of  deathless  song. 

The  subtlest  of  all  mystic  things, 

'Tis  strange  indeed  that  it  should  be, 

When  worn  by  poets,  beggars,  kings, 
The  garment  of  Simplicity. 
10 


And  you  that  seek  it  never  find, 
And  you  that  have  it  never  tell; 

And  all  that  strive  to  catch  and  bind 
Can  only  startle  and  dispel. 


11 


WIDE  MARGINS 

T^RINT  not  my  Book  of  Days,  I  pray, 

•*•         On  meager  page,  in  type  compact, 
Lest  the  Great  Reader's  calm  eye  stray 
Skippingly  through  from  fact  to  fact; 

But  let  there  be  a  liberal  space, 

At  least  'twixt  lines  where  ill  is  writ, 

That  I  with  tempering  hand  may  trace 
A  word  to  dull  the  edge  of  it. 

And  save  for  me  a  margin  wide 
Where  I  may  scribble  at  my  ease 

Elucidative  note  and  guide 
Of  most  adroit  apologies! 


CHORDS 

THOUGHTS  of  deep  pine-woods  and  of 
chanting  seas 

Follow  the  magic  hand-touch  on  the  keys ; 
Now  'tis  the  violins  that  loudest  cry, 
And  now  in  saddest  key  the  'cellos  sigh. 
Blent  with  the  lonely  challenge  of  the  horn, 
Echoed,  in  seeming,  from  some  height  forlorn. 
Again,  the  drums  and  viols  with  sullen  roar 
Break  with  their  sound-waves  on  the  mind's 

dim  shore, 

And  sullenly  die  away.     'Tis  then  there  come 
Out  from  the  cymbal-clash  and  roll  of  drum 
Chords  that  are  love  and  life,  and  even  the 

sharp, 
Hard  pain  of  death — chords  of  the  golden  harp. 


13 


THE  WIND  PATROL 

NO  guard  ventures  to  ask  toll 
Of  the  wind's  midnight  patrol, 
And  no  eyes,  however  keen, 
Have  its  flying  legion  seen ; 
Yet  a  thousand  times  and  one 
I  have  heard  the  vanguard  run! 
In  the  peaceful  summer  night 
Or  when  snows  lie  cold  and  white, 
From  their  far  unmapped  abode, 
In  contempt  of  beaten  road 
Come  the  wind  men  like  a  breath, 
Fatefully  and  swift  as  Death. 
Sometimes  with  a  battle  clash 
Through  the  forest  trees  they  dash; 
And  at  other  times  they  creep 
Like  a  dream  through  vales  of  sleep. 
Now  these  midnight  riders  own 
Charms  no  daylight  wind  has  known, 


Whether  leaving  in  their  wake 
Needful  rain  or  soft  snowflake, 
Or,  the  earliest  night  of  spring, 
Waking  all  the  sap  to  sing! 
Elms  and  beeches  in  my  wood 
Long  as  guard  for  me  have  stood; 
But  across  their  barricade 
Ride  the  wind  men  unafraid, 
And  a  fearful  challenge  roar 
As  they  charge  my  pane  and  door. 
Then,  before  the  house  grows  still, 
They  have  gained  the  farthest  hill 
Of  my  quiet  valley's  marge, 
Thence  again  to  charge  and  charge ! 


15 


A  PRAYER  OF  THE  HILL-COUNTRY 

And  the  strength  of  the  hills  is  his  also. 

LIFT  me,  O  Lord,  above  the  level  plain, 
Beyond  the  cities  where  life  throbs  and 

thrills, 
And  in  the  cool  airs  let  my  spirit  gain 

The  stable  strength  and  courage  of  Thy  hills 

They  are  Thy  secret  dwelling-places,  Lord! 

Like  Thy  majestic  prophets,  old  and  hoar, 
They  stand  assembled  in  divine  accord, 

Thy  sign  of  'stablished  power  forevermore. 

Here  peace  finds  refuge  from  ignoble  wars, 
And  faith,  triumphant,  builds  in  snow  and 

rime, 

Near  the  broad  highways  of  the  greater  stars, 
Above  the'  tide-line  of  the  seas  of  time. 
16 


Lead  me  yet  farther,  Lord,  to  peaks  more  clear, 
Until  the  clouds  like  shining  meadows  lie, 

Where  through  the  deeps  of  silence  I  may  hear 
The  thunder  of  Thy  legions  marching  by. 


17 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  MOUNTAINS 

SPIRIT  of  mountains  that  elusive  leaps 
From  high-walled  canon  to  unguarded 

height, 
Only  the  thought  may  follow  your  winged 

flight 

Where  the  swift  torrent,  down  the  rocky  steeps, 
A  flashing  line  of  spray  and  vapor  sweeps, 
And  through  dim  caverns  bears  the  noonday 

light  — 

Or  in  the  august  and  tranquil  summer  night, 
Among  cloud  harbors  where  the  lightning  sleeps. 

Spirit  of  mountains!     Freest  of  all  free  things, 
Let  me  the  star-companioned  ridges  climb 

With  heart  as  strong  as  the  bold  eagle's  wings ! 
Guide  me  to  those  serener  slopes  where  Time 

Less  harsh  the  immelodious  challenge  rings, 
And  song  is  truth,  and  truth  is  sweet  like 

rhyme ! 

18 


THE  PSALMS  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

IN  the  great  ocean's  thunder 
I  heard  the  old  songs  ring, 
I  heard  them  in  the  prairies 

Amid  the  grasses  sing; 
The  murmur  of  the  pine-wood 

With  Israel's  hymns  was  sweet, 
And  through  the  little  hills  I  heard 
Their  solemn  rhythm  beat. 

But  oh,  'twas  in  the  mountains 

Their  mystery  held  me  thrall! — 
Where  the  four  winds  of  heaven 

Sent  forth  their  challenge  call, 
With  martial  trumpets  thrilling 

The  rough-hewn  brawny  range, 
And  through  dark  canons  chanting 

The  spirit  of  all  change. 
19 


The  cattle  of  the  foot-hills 

In  gathering  snow  stood  deep ; 
The  shepherds  through  white  meadows 

Went  stumbling  for  their  sheep; 
And  where  the  lonely  hamlet 

Slept  'neath  stern  mountain  walls, 
The  winds  across  the  darkness 

Sang  hoarse  antiphonals. 

'Twas  Zion's  heart  melodious 

That  woke  the  solemn  height, 
Till  loud  the  ancient  hymnal 

Made  glorious  the  night; — 
Far-sounding  notes  of  triumph 

To  grief  and  wailing  ran, 
As  Nature's  voices  uttered 

The  cry  of  God  to  man. 


IN  THE  GREAT  PASTURES 

Our  cattle  also  shall  go  with  us. 

Exodus  X,  26. 

WHEN  the  grave  twilight  moves  toward  the 
west, 

And  the  horizons  of  the  plain  are  blurred, 
I  watch,  on  gradual  slope  and  foot-hill  crest, 

The  dark  line  of  the  herd. 
And  something  primal  through  my  being  thrills, 

For  that  line  met  the  night  when  life  began! 
And  cattle  gathered  from  a  thousand  hills 

Have  kept  the  trail  with  man, 
Till  their  calm  eyes  his  greater  Iliads  hold; 

The  wonder-look,  the  dumb  reproof  and  pain, 
Have  followed  him  since  Abram's  herds  of  old 

Darkened  the  Asian  plain. 


A  SHADOW  OF  THE  ROCKIES 

Y  I  iHE  mountains  from  my  window  lie  out- 
A  rolled, 

Their  solemn  peaks  with  coronals  of  snow 
O'er  which  the  fires  of  dawn  and  sunset  flow, 

And  keen,  high  ridges  by  fierce  winds  patrolled. 

With  evening  comes  a  mighty  shadow  cold 
Across  my  doorway  as  the  sun  sinks  low, 
And,  high  above,  the  loftier  summits  show 

Faint,  as  the  twilight  tames  their  outlines  bold. 

Then  from  the  heights  the  spirit  of  repose 
Steals  earthward,  with  the  peace  that  long 
has  lain 

Secure  amid  the  deep,  untrodden  snows — 

A  shadow  stream,   for  which  my   soul  is   fain, 

That  from  the  towering  peak  of  silence  flows, 
And  pours  its  balm  upon  the  toiling  plain. 


SIMPLICITY 

IF  power  were  mine  to  wield  control 
Of  Time  within  my  heart  and  soul, 
Saving  from  ruin  and  decay 
What  I  hold  dearest,  I  should  pray: 
That  I  may  never  cease  to  be 
Wooed  daily  by  Expectancy ; 
That  evening  shadows  in  mine  eyes 
Dim  not  the  light  of  new  surprise; 
That  I  may  feel,  till  life  be  spent, 
Each  day  the  sweet  bewilderment 
Of  fresh  delight  in  simple  things, — 
In  snowy  winters,  golden  springs, 
And  quicker  heart-beats  at  the  thought 
Of  all  the  good  that  man  has  wrought. 
But  may  I  never  face  a  dawn 
With  all  the  awe  and  wonder  gone, 
Or  in  late  twilight  fail  to  see 
Charm  in  the  stars'  old  sorcery. 


AN  APRIL  EASTER 

r  |  iHE  sun  has  brought  his  golden  keys 

••"      And  opened  wide  the  doors  of  spring, 
Till  earth's  a-thrill  with  mysteries 
Of  breaking  bud  and  eager  wing. 

I  know  not  where  spring's  miracle 

In  the  glad  mold  was  earliest  wrought, — 

No  more  by  striving  may  men  tell 
What  first  was  in  His  holy  thought 

When  the  light  seal  of  sleep  He  broke, 

And  in  the  darkened  sepulcher 
Once  more  to  human  sense  awoke, 

And  felt  the  life  within  Him  stir. 


ASPHODEL 

ONE  night  while  loitering  in  some  grove  of 
sleep 

I  saw  a  hand  mysterious  unbar 
A  gate,  that  from  my  heavy  eyes  did  keep 
A  raging  battle  in  a  region  far. 
Then  bugles  sounded,  and  within  my  dream, 
But  yet  distinct,  insistent,  came  the  roar 
Of  that  strange  conflict  and  the  sudden  gleam 
Of  weapons  that  a  myriad  warriors  bore 
And  on  that  dust-blurred  field 
With  sturdy  hand  did  wield. 

Cool  was  the  wood 
In  which  I  stood 

Intent  upon  that  heated  plain,  and  sweet 
Were  the  dew-laden  flowers  about  my  feet, — 

25 


Sky-woven  violets  and  moonflowers  wan, 
Roses  and  hyacinths  whereon  ne'er  fell 
The  rival  hues  of  any  new  day's  dawn, 
And  oh,  the  asphodel,  the  asphodel! 

"Ah,  but  for  power  to  pass  that  open  gate 
And  for  the  strength  to  break  this  hated  spell,' 
And  praying  thus  I  strove  against  the  fate 
That  held  me  prisoner  to  the  asphodel. 
"Why  must  I  see  afar  the  battle  rage 
And  not  be  of  the  armies  there  that  wage 
Such  glorious  conflict?"    And  I  sought  again 
To  leave  that  quiet  wood  and  its  soft  air 
For  the  fierce  ventures  of  the  shaken  plain; 
But  the  gate  closed  before  my  wondering  eyes, 
Leaving  me  gaping,  like  a  child  whose  hand 
Aids  in  a  trick  beyond  his  vague  surmise, 
Vexed  with  himself,  yet  fain  to  understand. 

Then  from  dream's  thrall  set  free, 
I  slowly  turned,  but  yet  contentedly, 
To  the  deep  odorous  wood 
With  its  sweet  solitude; 


Its  roses,  hyacinths  and  lorn, 
Meek  moonflowers,  fearful  of  the  morn, 
And — oh,  I  loved  it  long  and  well! — 
The  asphodel,  the  asphodel! 

If  you  were  keeper  of  that  gate,  if  you, 

My   friend,  could  give  me  entrance  to  that  field 

That  I  thereon  some  valorous  deed  might  do, 

So  fame  to  me  would  yield 

Reward  of  honor  and  of  gold, 

Would  you  the  way  unfold, 

Or  I  be  left  my  little  while  to  dwell 

A  neighbor  of  the  asphodel? 


TO  A  DEBUTANTE 

YOUR  dreams  have  never  known  a  world  so 
fair 

As  this  reality  of  joy  and  light; 
The  springs  that  o'er  your  head  have  winged 

swift  flight 

Steal  back  again  with  all  their  fragrance  rare 
Of  May-time  blossoms.     On  the  happy  air, 
Viol  and  harp  and  horn  their  burden  bright 
Add  to  the  charm  of  this  enchantment  night, 
That  finds  you  queen,  with  none  your  reign  to 
share. 

But  through  the  music's  careless  march  and 

swing, 
Beyond  these  dancers'  forms  that  drift  and 

sway, 
I  hear  for  you  a  graver  measure  ring 

Where,  far  along  on  your  appointed  way, 
A  girl's  heart  to  a  woman's  task  you  bring, 
Serene  and  pure,  amid  the  troubled  day. 
28 


LOVE'S  MUSIC 


T     OVE'S  music  is  not  set  in  simple  keys 
•* — *   Of  jingling  catches  and  light  melodies, 
But  rings  in  deeper,  mightier  chords  than  these. 


Through  marvelous  symphonies  it  ebbs  and 

flows, 

In  choral  storms,  with  martial  power  it  blows, 
And  chants  in  solemn  oratorios. 

Like  hymns  of  victory  are  its  pure  chords 

blown, 

Or  like  a  bugle's  notes  that  rise  alone 
And  call,  beyond  man's  thought,  to  Death's   far 

zone. 

Its  strength  is  more  mysterious  than  the  tides, 
As,  unresisted,  through  the  soul  it  rides, 
Until  in  Memory's  quiet  haven  it  bides. 

29 


WEST 

NORTH,  east,  south,  west, — 'tis  thus  geog 
raphers 
Bound  the  known  earth  and  for  the  unknown 

make  quest; 

But  I,  remembering  each  sweet  way  of  hers, 
Look  only  west. 

And  less  reluctant  now  that  she  has  gone, 
The  golden  sun  goes  down  its  arching  way, 

Bearing  to  her  the  welcome  light  of  dawn 
And  the  new  day. 

Such  peace,  such  calm  as  hers  they  only  find 
Who  know  life  and  its  surging  waters  wide, — 

Who  dare  the  deeps  and  shoals  of  soul  and  mind 
At  the  supremest  tide. 
30 


So  as  each  eve  the  western  windows  grow 

Bright  in  the  dying  rays  and  discords  cease. 

The  thought  of  her  becomes  an  afterglow 
Of  joy,  calm,  peace. 


ESCHEAT 

TO  my  estate  no  heirs  succeed; 
When  I  have  done  with  it  no  man 
Shall  find  it  suited  to  his  need, 
Adapted  to  his  plan. 

The  walls  for  me  were  built,  and  when 
I  close  the  door  and  turn  the  key 

No  one  shall  enter  there  again, 
Or  rule  in  place  of  me. 

This  house  is  all  I  own;  though  poor 
It  shelters  me,  and  many  a  storm 

Has  passed  it,  leaving  all  secure, 
The  inner  hearthstone  warm. 

But  after  me  no  eager  kin 

Shall  hold  my  former  house  in  pride; 
No  enemy  shall  enter  in 

As  tenant  to  abide. 


The  friendly  earth  is  good  and  sweet 
And  kindly  to  its  heart  will  draw 

Estates  like  mine  when  they  escheat 
By  nature's  changeless  law. 


33 


SHADOW  LINES 

WHEN  slow  the  brooding  dark  around 
you  falls, 

Save  only  as  the  lamp's  rose-mellowed  light 
Burns  through  it,  but  without  dispelling 

quite — 

Trembling  along  the  dim  and  shadowy  walls — 
What  fleeting  spirit  of  the  evening  calls? 

What  songs  come  stealing  to  you  through  the 

night 

Along  the  vistas  of  brave  fancy's  flight — 
What  story  steals  from  old  Romance's  halls? 

I  can  not  fathom  what  these  things  to  you 
May  bring;  nor  what  sad  thoughts  to  you 

belong ; 
Nor  know  I  whether  rosemary  or  rue 

Awaits  you  here  or  there;  the  path  is  long 
And  some  things  must  be  false  and  some  be 

true 

And  sad  strains  must  be  woven  in  the  song. 
34 


YOUTH  AND  WINTER 

WHEN   summer  days  are  long  and  sweet 
The   maples   that   o'erarch  my   street, — 
My  linden  and  the  crimson  rose 
That  round  my  southern  window  glows, 
Efface  the  outer  world  for  me, — 
Scarce  past  the  vine-clasped  wall  I  see, — 
Nor  longer  flight  my  eyes  are  led 
Than  to  my  neighbor's  canna  bed! 
But  when  the  leaves  have  vanished  quite 
New  vistas  broaden  to  my  sight; 
December's  broken  arches  give 
Visions  less  faint  and  fugitive 
Of  Mabel,  Grace  and  Josephine, — 
Who  have  not  yet  known  seventeen! 
Of  Gwendolen, — a  few  years  more 
In  her  brief  audit  I  must  score! — 
And  Nora, — she  whose  teasing  eyes 
Make  wisdom  futile, — and  unwise! 


Ah,  easy  'tis  in  summertime 

Within  to  find  thoughts  winged  for  rhyme; 

But  when  the  skies  are  gray  and  cold 

And  all  the  summer's  tales  are  told, 

My  eyes  leap  eagerly  to  greet 

Youth  down  the  long  aisles  of  the  street. 

From  Mabel,  Josephine  and  Grace 

My  pulse  derives  a  quickened  pace; 

Hope's  vanished  hours  grow  gold  again 

Whenever  I  see  Gwendolen ; 

And  age-won  wisdom  meetly  flies 

From  Nora  of  the  teasing  eyes. 


"IN  WINTER  I  WAS  BORN" 

In  winter  I  was  born, 

So  all  my  years  I've  loved  the  frost  and  snow 
And  the  strong,  tireless  winds  that,  passing, 
blow 

A  battle  note  forlorn. 

I  love  the  year's  long  night. 
The  tumult  of  great  storms,  the  biting  air 
Make  my  heart's  summertime,  when  days  are 
fair 

And  yield  me  true  delight. 

In  winter  I  was  born, 
And  as  I  came  so  let  me  pass  away, 
Out  from  the  world  on  a  December  day 

When  the  delaying  morn 


In  the  far  east  shall  creep 
Last  time  for  me;  then  let  the  winds  I  love 
Come  from  their  far-off  homes  and  sing  above 

The  place  where  I  shall  sleep. 


38 


THE  WINTER  WIND  IN  THE  ROCKIES 


s 


NOW-crowned  the  mighty  Babels  round  me 

rise! 
Long   the   rude   towers   and  battlements   have 

rung 
With   furious   speech,   in   many   a  thunderous 

tongue, 

Till  a  fierce  clamor  fills  the  wondering  skies. 
Anon,  when  the  discordant  chorus  dies, 
Low  oratorios  to  the  plains  are  sung, 
Voicing  the  ages  when  these  peaks  were 

young 
And  echoed  first  the  wind's  confused  cries. 

Hark!     How  at  midnight  the  tumultuous  throng 
Blend  their  harsh  dissonance  in  one  deep  roar 


Whose  note  through  lonely  canons  wanders 

long — 
Hymning  the  north's  withholden  splendors 

hoar, 
Chanting  the  stilled  sea  and  the  imprisoned 

shore, 
With  twice  a  thousand  winters  in  their  song! 


40 


GOD  SAVE  THE  STATE! 

ASK  of  me  not  that  in  the  loud  acclaim 
I  join,  to  laud  the  day's  victorious  name, 
Whether  your  choice  or  mine, — though  I  am 

prone 

To  plead  inexorably  for  my  own, 
And  flout  your  creed  as  false,  proclaim  mine 

wise. 

Yet  not  with  man  or  cause  the  triumph  lies, 
For  what  has  been  established,  what  disproved? 
In  the  November  midnight  I  am  moved 
Less  by  exultant  shouts  that  o'er  the  town 
Herald  the  chief  new-laureled  for  renown, 
Than  by  the  thought  that,  safe  from  strife  and 

hate, 

August,  serene,  triumphant  lives  the  State, 
Immutable  and  steadfast  like  the  hills! 
Though  over  it  a  thousand  warring  wills 


Storm  fitfully,  they  only  prove  it  strong. 
And  you  and  I,  who  prate  of  error  and  wrong, 
Hear  many  a  challenge  'neath  the  citadel 
While  the  calm  sentry  answers  "All  is  well," — 
And  starward  lifts  his  eyes!     Man's  faith  in 

man 

Remains  the  secret  still  of  God's  great  plan 
Whereof  He  gave  to  us  the  golden  key 
That  seals  our  covenant  with  Liberty 
And  makes  her  holy  ark  for  aye  our  own, 
To  hold  for  Man  and  not  for  men  alone! 
Your  hand,  my  friend!     The  heavens  decree  our 

fate; 
Who  loses  or  who  wins,  God  save  the  State ! 

November,  1904. 


THE  EARTH 

WITH  gathering  years  the  earth  has  not 
grown  tame, 

In  man's  firm  clasp  a  mere  imprisoned  ball, 
Though  conquering  feet  have  trodden  nearly 

all, 

And   even   the  uncharted   has   received   a   name; 
There  still  loom  heights  deserving  of  man's 

aim; 

Forbidding  isles  still  lie  beyond  his  thrall; 
The  silent  Polar  doors  heed  not  his  call, 
And  inmost  tropic  wilds  he  scarce  dare  claim. 

Yet,  when  at  last  the  globe  is  mastered  quite, 
And  prying  man  has  left  no  inch  unscanned, 

He  still  must  pause  before  earth's  moods  of 

might 
That  lift  the  sea  and  toss  the  desert  sand, — 

That  set  the  dread  volcano's  torch  alight, 

And  send  strange  tremors  through  the  startled 

land. 

43 


AN  OLD  GUIDON 

THROUGH  this  torn  scarf  my  father's  hand 
Set,  'mid  the  battle's  thunderings, 
More  truly  I  can  understand 

The  strifes  of  ancient  chiefs  and  kings. 

Faintly  to-day  Thermopylae 

In  song  and  story  clangs  and  rings; 
Shiloh  and  Kenesaw  bring  me 

Nearer  to  all  heroic  things. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  BUGLE 

T  HAVE  heard  the  bugle  blown 

•*•     Where  the  southern  seas  make  moan ; 

And  have  followed  east  and  west 

At  its  trumpeted  behest; 

By  the  mighty  mountains'  marge 

I  have  heard  it  sing  the  charge, 

Till  old  battles  in  my  blood 

Were  a  mighty  tide  at  flood — 

O  bugle! 

I  have  seen  the  bugler  stand 
With  the  trumpet  in  his  hand, 
When  the  winter's  dawn-light  gray 
Brought  again  reluctant  day, 
Very  silent,  very  lone, 
With  the  whole  world  for  his  own, 
Till  he  woke  it  with  a  note 
From  the  brazen  trumpet's  throat — 

O  bugle! 

45 


Then  I  saw  old  battles  fade 
Far  across  the  dim  parade, 
And  a  thousand  knights  went  by 
Like  a  moving  tapestry; 
Old  crusaders  riding  fast 
Down  dark  vistas  of  the  past, 
Worn  and  broken  in  their  mail 
While  the  bugle  sang  them  hail — 

O  bugle! 

As  within  the  fort's  grim  bound 
Swift  the  bugler  made  his  round, 
Dawn  and  youth  were  in  the  call 
That  he  sent  from  wall  to  wall! 
I  saw  Troy  and  Marathon 
In  the  faint  light  of  the  dawn; 
Battles  old  and  battles  new — 
Agincourt  and  Waterloo — 

O  bugle! 

Now  my  blood  more  swiftly  beats 
Victories  and  brave  defeats; — 
46 


Shiloh  passes  and  I  see 

Swing  in  place  a  battery 

With  plunging  horses  seared  and  scourged, 

By  an  undaunted  leader  urged, 

And  in  that  smoke-hung,  fire-swept  place 

I  see — through  tears — my  father's  face — 

O  bugle! 


SHILOH 

THOUGH  the  blest  winds  of  peace  down  the 
highways  are  blowing, 
And  blithe  birds  are  singing  where  bullets 

once  sped; — 
Though  the  wheat  and  the  corn  on  the  old 

fields  are  growing 

The  ground  is  still  hallowed  by  blood  of  the 
dead. 

O  battery  boys,  can  you  hear  it,  the  roaring 
Of  great  iron  engines  along  the  gray  lines? 

The  bugles  sing  sweetly;  the  eagle  is  soaring 
Where  on  the  far  borders  your  old  guidon 
shines. 

On  the  lumbering  caissons  you  rode  to  your 

glory ; 
The  lanyards  were  latch-strings  that  opened 

to  fame! 

48 


While  the  rolling  discharges  gave  rhythm  to 

your  story, 

Your  armor  was  woven  of  smoke  blent  with 
flame. 

Is  it  riven  and  faded,  or  is   it  still  gleaming 
To  mark,  here  the  bivouac,  and  there,  bat 
tle-lines  ? 
Wind  and  sun  have  been  kind,  so  that  still  in 

your  dreaming 

On  life's  farthest  margin  the  old  guidon 
shines. 


49 


CUBA 

SHALL  we  who  in  the  mighty  west 
Set  foot  upon  a  king's  decrees 
Let  vulture  Spain  hide  in  her  nest 
The  fair  pearl  of  the  southern  seas  ? 

In  selfish  ease  we  watch  the  fight 

And  say  "How  fine  their  battle-rage!" 

Yet,  lending  nothing  of  our  might, 
We  forfeit  our  own  heritage. 

We  mock  the  Briton's  cautious  plan 
Amid  the  Sultan's  bloody  work, 

But  while  we  prate  of  love  of  man, 

May  not  the  Spaniard  match  the  Turk? 

We  praised  Kossuth.     Mazzini's  name 
And  Garibaldi's  warmed  like  wine; 

Remembering  them,  'tis  to  our  shame 
We  aid  not  Cuba's  wavering  line! 
60 


I  know  not  whether  black  or  white 

They  be  who  strive  to  make  her  free; 

They  seek  the  sun  at  darkest  night 
And  prove  their  right  to  liberty. 

I  know  not  whether  black  or  white 

Nor  care,  since  Lincoln's  strong  arm  caught 
The  curled  whip  o'er  the  bondman's  back 

And  a  wronged  people's  freedom  wrought! 

A  Latin  people  gave  us  aid 

And  dared  for  us  to  break  a  lance; 

To  Cuba  let  the  debt  be  paid 
We  owe  to  liberty  and  France! 

Hark!  the  long  Caribbean  wave 

Moans  on  the  island  beach  and  dies ; 

We,  with  our  lion's  strength  to  save, 
Feel  the  shame  growing  in  our  eyes. 


51 


No!  we  are  not  a  coward  land! 

A  sword-flash  with  our  sympathy ! 
Let  us  help  rear,  with  practised  hand, 

A  new  republic  of  the  sea! 

January,  1898. 


"BLESS  THOU  THE  GUNS" 

HID  in  earth's  caverns  deep, 
In  the  cold  ores  asleep, 
Or  in  the  lightning's  thrall, 
Force  waits  for  Freedom's  call! 
Out  of  Thy  mountains  old 
Thou  gav'st  the  iron  we  mold, 
And  the  stern,  tempered  steel 
To  liberty  we  seal. 
May  we  Thy  gifts  of  might 
Use  well  to  serve  the  right; 
And  may  our  solemn  wrath 
Leave  clear  for  peace  a  path — 
Bless  Thou  the  guns! 

Not  worn  with  ancient  hate 
We  the  first  shock  await; 
53 


Not  that  our  Saxon  kin 
Hemmed  the  Armada  in, 
But  that  Thy  word  may  be 
No  empty  prophecy ; 
That  faith  may  rise,  restored 
By  the  avenging  sword, 
We  out  of  peaceful  ways 
Turn  to  the  power  that  slays. 
Out  of  the  battle's  flame 
Lord,  bring  us  free  from  blame — 
Bless  Thou  the  guns ! 

Lord,  at  our  very  door, 
Death  clutches  at  Thy  poor, 
And  stricken  liberty 
Raises  her  hand  to  Thee; 
Lord,  'tis  our  task  to  do 
If  Thy  own  word  be  true! 
Thou  who  the  bright  stars  blent 
In  the  flag's  firmament — 


Thou  who  to  Freedom's  hand 
Gav'st  the  new  western  land, 
Thou  who  didst  Israel  lead 
Forth,  free  of  Pharaoh's  greed- 
Bless  Thou  the  guns! 


April,  1898. 


55 


THE  HORNS 

MY  soul  had  died  for  joy  what  time 
The  violin  sang  out  alone, 
And  requiem  bells  in  solemn  chime 
Grieved  through  the  viol's  moan. 

Then  harp  and  'cello  led  me  on 

Through  maze  of  tender  harmonies, 

Beyond  the  hour,  beyond  the  dawn, 
Beyond  the  utmost  seas. 

But  through  that  realm  by  music  bound, 
Like  a  bold  blast  of  freshening  air, 

Sudden  I  heard  the  trumpets  sound 
With  harsh  and  militant  blare. 

Then,  as  to  Joshua's  trumpet-call, 
Seven  days  repeated,  Jericho 

Yielded  its  stern,  reluctant  wall, 
So  were  such  dreams  brought  low; 
56 


And,  their  poor  ruin  quickly  spurned, 
Into  fierce  conflict  I  was  hurled, 

Where  fields  and  cities  brightly  burned, 
And  battle  shook  the  world. 


BELLONA 

(Gerome's  Statue) 

WHAT  wanton  bold,  exultant  in  her 
shame, — 
What  monster  art  thou  in  this  woman's 

guise? 
Think'st  thou  with  blatant  shout  the  world  to 

tame, 
Or  awe  man  with  thy  terrible  great  eyes? 

Thou  art  Bellona,  the  fell  scourge  of  earth, 
Who  set'st  for  man  his  false,  ignoble  goals; 

Thou  the  destroyer  of  love   and  bane  of  mirth, 
Thou  the  relentless  trafficker  in  souls. 

Death's  lure  thou  art,  on  his  dark  mischief  bent, 
In  splendor  clad  his  livery  gray  to  hide ; 

His  cry  thou  bellowest  from  the  battlement ; 
On  ruddy  fields  before  him  thou  dost  ride. 
58 


Art  thou  so  glorious?     Are  thy  deeds  so  great? 

Canst  thou  awake   earth's   myriad  slaughtered 

hosts, 
Or  summon  from  the  sea's  unpillared  gate 

Thy  drowned  armada-sepulcher  of  ghosts? 

I  cower-  not  before  thy  shining  blade 

Thou  hold'st  upraised  and  bloodily  dost  wield; 

Nor  fear  the  serpent  that  doth  give  thee  aid, 
Nor  shrink  before  the  radiance  of  thy  shield. 

Where  thou  destroy'st  I  build;  where  thou  dost 

blight 

My  hands  restore;  I  thy  lorn  thralls  release; 
My  pinions  touch  thy  darkened  world  with  light 
And  healing  for  its  wounds:     Lo,  I  am 
Peace! 


59 


A  TENANT 

T  I  ^HIS  spirit  with  its  boundaries  wide 
•*•       Is  not  my  own  to  hold  in  fee; 
Through  all  my  days  therein  I  bide 
As  one  of  God's  great  tenantry. 

'Tis  not  as  unsown  fallow  land 

To  lie,  the  playground  of  wild  weeds, 

But  lent  me  from  the  Sovereign's  hand 
To  grow  the  fruitage  of  fair  deeds. 

And  I  ill-pay  His  faith  and  trust 
If  the  field  be  but  weakly  tilled, — 

Unsown  the  rich  unbroken  crust, 
Or  sown  in  labor  feebly-willed. 

But  'tis  for  me  to  tend  my  field 
Till  white  with  harvest  my  life  be, 

And  I  full-handed  bring  its  yield 
In  proof  of  honest  tenancy. 
60 


NEW  YEAR'S  COLLECT 

LORD,  another  year  has  wrought 
Changes  with  deep  meaning  fraught ; 
Give  us  larger  understanding 
Of  the  lessons  Thou  hast  taught. 

By  Thy  hand  our  stars  were  sent 
Forth  into  the  firmament; 

Help  us  lift  our  starry  guidon 
To  the  height  of  Thy  intent! 

Slow  in  anger  to  condemn, 
May  we  Wrong's  dull  tide-wave  stem 
With  the  righteous  wrath  of  Sinai, 
And  the  love  of  Bethlehem! 

Oh,  'twere  shameful  if,  at  last, 
All  forgetful  of  the  past, 

We  should  weld  in  roaring  forges 
Tyrant  chains  to  bind  us  fast! 
61 


In  our  hearts  let  hatred  cease, 
And  tranquillity  increase; 

Teach  us  that  the  God  of  Battles 
Is  not  less  the  God  of  Peace. 

It  sufficeth  not  that  we 
High  before  the  world  stand  free, — 
We  must  still  with  infinite  striving 
O'er  ourselves  the  victors  be! 

In  our  pride  doth  lurk  defeat 
If  with  dragon-wrongs  we  treat; 

Strengthen  us  that,  like  Saint  Michael, 
We  may  break  them  'neath  our  feet! 


FROM  BETHLEHEM  TO  CALVARY 


F 


1ROM  Bethlehem  to  Calvary,  the  Saviour's 

journey  lay; 
Doubt,  unbelief,  scorn,  fear  and  hate  beset  Him 

day  by  day, 

But  in  His  heart  He  bore  God's  love  that 
brightened  all  the  way. 

O'er  the  Judean  hills  He  walked,  serene  and 

brave  of  soul, 
Seeking  the  beaten  paths  of  men,  touching  and 

making  whole, 
Dying  at  last  for  love  of  man,  on  Calvary's 

darkened  knoll. 


63 


He  went  with  patient  step  and  slow,  as  one 

who  scatters  seed; 
Like  a  fierce  hunger  in  His  heart,  He  felt  the 

world's  great  need, 
And  the  negations  Moses  gave  He  changed  to 

loving  deed. 

From  Bethlehem  to  Calvary  the  world  still  fol 
lows  on, 

Even  as  the  halt  and  blind  of  old  along  His 
path  were  drawn; 

Through  Calvary's  clouds  they  seek  the  light 
that  led  Him  to  the  dawn. 


MEA  CULPA 

NCE  I  have  seen  you  press  against  your 

heart 

A  hand,  in  sudden  pain; 
Oh!  it  was  mine,  the  pain,  the  cruel  smart! 


O 


Once,  only,  pain  made  shadow  in  your  eyes — 

My  own  were  void  of  light, 
For  they  the  seas  are  that  reflect  your  skies. 

By  day  or  night  the  clenching  hand  I  see, 

And  eyes  by  pain  possessed; 
There  is  no  other  sight  or  thought  for  me. 

This  penance  ceaselessly  I  must  withstand — 

The  pain  in  your  sad  eyes, 
And  close  against  your  heart  the  clenching 
hand. 

65 


NEWS 


SWIFT  runners  through  the  Mahdi's  land 
Dart  tirelessly  to  bear  the  word 
When  first  the  hot  Egyptian  sand 
By  some  mysterious  foe  is  blurred. 


Through  listless  tropic  jungles  speed 
Dark  men,  alert,  intent  and  keen, 

Who  bid  their  scattered  tribesmen  heed 
Some  startling  portent  they  have  seen. 

Lithe  island  messengers  ply  deep 
Their  paddles  in  the  southern  sea, 

When  first  on  dim  horizons  creep 
Strange  masted  things  of  mystery. 


66 


Slow  rousing  from  his  night  of  days 

The  Eskimo  awakes,  reborn, 
Hearing  first  time,  in  awed  amaze, 

A  gun  salute  the  Arctic  morn. 

O'er  desert  sand  and  'neath  the  sea 
The  lightning's  instant  message  goes, 

To  tell  the  whole  world  speedily 

What  now  some  lonely  village  knows. 

We  scan  the  path  outside  the  door 
By  day  and  night,  with  eager  eyes, 

And  only  things  unknown  before 

Can  yield  the  charm  of  fresh  surprise. 

The  gossip  of  the  world  flies  fast, 
The  idlest  rumors  far  are  blown, 

And  swiftly  gathered  to  the  past 

Are  all  the  deeds  an  hour  has  known. 


67 


Ac 


FOR  A  PIONEER'S  MEMORIAL 

CROSS  the  world  the  ceaseless  march  of 

man 
Has  been  through  smoldering  fires,  left  by 

the  bold, 

Who  first  beyond  the  guarded  outposts  ran 
And  saw  with  wondering  eyes  new  lands  un 
rolled — 

Who  built  the  hut  in  which  a  home  began, 
And  round  a  camp-fire's  ashes  broke  the 
mold. 


68 


ORCHARDS  BY  THE  SEA 

ALONG  the  northern  coast  they  stand, 
These  groups  of  rugged  apple-trees, 
Grim  outposts  of  the  fruitful  land, 
Defying  winds  and  seas. 

The  waves  that  beat  the  rocks  below 
For  long  have  shaken  branch  and  root, 

Yet  the  gnarled  boughs  again  will  show 
Their  meager  yield  of  fruit. 

And  inland  apples,  softly  kissed 
On  quiet  boughs  by  dew  and  rain, 

Unflavored  by  the  salt-sea  mist, 
Untaught  by  the  sea's  pain, — 

But  tamely  live,  and  never  share 
Those  secrets  of  the  elder  seas 

Once  held  inviolate  by  the  fair 
Fruits  of  Hesperides. 
69 


IRELAND 

IRELAND,  weary  mother  sitting, 
Lorn  amid  thy  seas ; 
When  shall  thy  far-scattered  children 

Gather  at  thy  knees? 
Thou  art  worn  and  old  and  broken, 

Thou  art  lean  and  cold, 
When  shall  they  again  assemble 

In  thine  island  fold? 
They  are  aliens,  they  are  wanderers, 

Driven  far  to  roam, 
But  with  querulous  voice  thou  call'st  them, 

Call'st  thy  children  home. 

Other  lands  thou  gav'st  to  freedom, 

Through  thy  dauntless  sons; 
O'er  the  round  world  they  are  buried 

Dead  beneath  their  guns; 
70 


Seeking  liberty  thou  sent'st  them 

Through  far  field  and  flood, 
But  they  may  not  fight  thy  battles, 

Shed  for  thee  their  blood! 
Other  soil  has  known  their  valor, 

Willing  heart  and  daring  hand, 
But  again  thy  voice  is  calling, 

Calling  home  to  motherland. 

Thou  art  in  thine  age  majestic, 

Queenly  in  thy  rags, 
Like  an  eagle  mother  stricken 

In  her  native  crags — 
Who,  in  her  riven  place  of  nesting 

Sees  by  cruel  hands  far-flung 
Her  new  brood  of  fledgling  eaglets, 

And  cries  fiercely  for  her  young! 
Ah,  thou,  too,  art  lonely,  dreaming 

In  thy  desolate  home  apart, 
Yet  thy  foes  may  break  thy  pinions, 

But  they  can  not  break  thy  heart! 


71 


Thou  art  still  a  royal  mother 

By  no  child  disowned; 
To  thy  loyal  sons  and  daughters 

Thou  art  still  enthroned! 
Let  thy  fingers,  slow  and  feeble, 

That  were  once  so  quick  and  strong, 
Wake  thy  harp's  note,  that,  exultant, 

Led  of  old  a  nation's  song; 
And  thy  dimming  eyes  shall  brighten 

Through  the  full-flood  of  thy  tears, 
As  thou  hear'st  afar  thy  children 

Marching  home  across  the  years. 


WATCHING  THE  WORLD  GO  BY 

SWIFT  as  a  meteor  and  as  quickly  gone 
A  train  of  cars   darts   swiftly   through  the 

night, — 

Scorning  the  woods  and  fields  it  hurries  on, 
A  thing  of  wrathful  might. 

There,  from  a  farmer's  home  a  woman's  eyes, 
Roused  by  the   sudden  jar  and  passing  flare, 

Follow  the  speeding  phantom  till  it  dies — 
An  echo  on  the  air. 

Narrow  the  life  that  always  has  been  hers, 
The  evening  brings  a  longing  to  her  breast ; 

Deep  in  her  heart  some  aspiration  stirs 
And  mocks  her  soul's  unrest. 


Her  tasks  are  mean  and  endless  as  the  days, 
And  sometimes  love  can  not  repay  all  things; 

An  instrument  that,  rudely  touched,  obeys, 
Becomes  discordant  strings. 

The  train  that  followed  in  the  headlight's  flare, 
Bound  for  the  city  and  a  larger  world, 

Made  emphasis  of  her  poor  life  of  care, 
As  from  her  sight  it  whirled. 

Thus  from  all  lonely  hearts  the  great  earth 

rolls, 
Indifferent  though  one  woman  grieve  and 

die; 

Along  its  iron  track  are  many  souls 
That  watch  the  world  go  by. 


GRACE  CHIMES 

EAD,  kindly  light,"  I  heard  the  glad 

bells  ring, 

And  thought  how  God  existeth  everywhere; 
*Twas  in  a  city  strange  that,  sweetest  thing! 
"Lead,  kindly  light,"  I  heard  the  glad  bells 

ring, 
And   summer  quickened   in  the  heart   of   spring, 

For  where  the  kind  light  leadeth  all  is  fair. 
"Lead,  kindly  light,"  I  heard  the  glad  bells 

ring, 
And  thought  how  God  existeth  everywhere. 


75 


DERELICT 

A  HOPE  once  sailed  me  through  the  summer 
sea, 
And  bravely  through  the  waves  I  plowed  my 

way ; 

The  captain  and  his  crew  in  praise  of  me 
Sang  all  the  happy  day. 

Forth  on  my  spars  the  nimble  seamen  drew 
The  snowy  sheets  to  catch  the  sturdy  breeze ; 

I  thought,  "How  blest  am  I  with  captain,  crew 
And  willing  sails  like  these." 

A  great  storm  came  and  to  my  very  heart 
I  felt  the  shattering  wind  that  charged  and 

wheeled, 

Driving  me  into  deeps  no  guiding  chart 
Had  ever  yet  revealed. 
76 


On  calm  sea  meadows  fell  the  gradual  dawn ; 

Lifeless  and  helpless  on  the  waves  I  lay, 
By  winds  and  ocean  currents  guided  on 

And  with  no  hand  to  stay. 

For  my  good  captain  and  his  merry  crew 
Abandoned  me  when,  snapping  like  a  reed, 

One  tall  mast  fell;  quick  to  their  boats  they 

flew — 
Cowards  in  my  dire  need. 

My  rudder  does  the  waves'  behest,  my  keel 
Unheedf  ully  skims  over  hidden  bars ; 

I  answer  not  the  noon  sun's  fierce  appeal 
Nor  challenges  of  stars. 

No  longer  matters  it  if  storms  prevail; 

Of  my  decrepitude  the  waves  make  sport; 
My  decks  will  never  hear  a  welcome  hail 

From  any  wide-armed  port. 


77 


Or  far  or  near  pass  joyous  peopled  ships 
And  gaze  at  me  with  strange  distrustful 

eyes; 
Through  fogs  their  pilots  steer  with  tightened 

lips 
Lest  my  dread  ghost  arise. 


78 


o 


THE  WAYWARD  MUSE 


N  pleasant  days  I'm  prone  to  shirk 
My  well-planned  hours  of  indoor  work; 


I  find  that  fleetly  speeds  the  time, 
With  no  words  caught  in  nets  of  rhyme. 

I  see  my  muse  (the  inconstant  fay!) 
Across  the  threshold  dart  away, 

And  through  the  woodland  disappear 
When  first  the  breath  of  spring  is  here. 

On  all  the  long,  bright  summer  days 
She  guides  me  through  enchanted  ways, — 

Through  meadows  fair,  by  singing  brooks, 
And  scorns  to  speak  of  men  or  books ! 

79 


When  autumn's  golden  days  are  brief, 
And  earthward  slants  the  withered  leaf, 

She  leads  me  down  the  street's  long  aisle 
Into  the  country,  many  a  mile! 

But  when  the  skies  in  gray  are  set 
And  all  our  pleasant  walks  are  wet; 

When  keen  winds  blow  and  snows  are  deep, 
At  home  we  twain  our  vigil  keep. 

She  sits  there  in  the  ingle-nook 

And  dreams,  or  turns  some  mellow  book, 

And  tends  my  fire,  or,  happiest  chance! 
Bends  on  my  page  her  favoring  glance. 

Now  I  am  glad  when  I  can  see 
The  summer  skies  arched  over  me, 

And  glad,  when  bluebirds  bring  me  news, 
To  follow  country  ward  the  muse; 

80 


But  well  I  love  these  golden  times 
When  from  the  fire  I  coax  my  rhymes; 

When  in  the  flame  of  hickory  wood 
I  read  new  poems,  sweet  and  good: 

For  then  I  need  not  turn  the  key 
To  keep  my  faithless  muse  with  me; 

I  need  not  threaten,  then,  nor  scold, 
At  home  that  errant  girl  to  hold! 

For  when  the  first  thin  snows  appear, 
Her  foot  upon  the  step  I  hear, 

And  she  steals  in  with  smiling  face, 
Again  to  her  remembered  place, 

And  in  her  peaceful  corner  croons 
Light-hearted  songs  of  bloomy  Junes, — 

Or,  haply,  she  and  I  together 
Send  song-barbed  shafts  against  the  weather! 

81 


MEMORY 

THIS  hour  the  fateful  tide  runs  up  the 
beach, 

As  the  sea  wills  it; 

It  seeks  each  hollow  loved  of  yesterday, 
Finds  it,  and  fills  it. 


UNMAPPED 

WHOSE  hand  shall  limn  the  final  chart, 
Complete,  with  every  stream  that 

flows, 

With  pathways  which  the  bold  of  heart 
Have  trampled  through  the  Polar  snows? 

Perchance  to-morrow's  sun  will  shine 
On  outposts  by  some  desolate  shore 

Where  man's  advancing  picket-line 
Must  pause  and  camp  forevermore. 

E'en  now  the  wide-strewn  island  host 
Within  the  map's  net  has  been  drawn, 

And  soon  no  mere  adventurous  boast 
Shall  lure  the  tropic  traveler  on. 


83 


But  when  the  maps  are  finished  quite, 
And  all  the  stranger  world  is  known, 

Still  shall  abide  the  elusive  light 

On  coasts  where  Fancy's  winds  are  blown. 

And  fearless  eyes  for  long  may  strain, 
And  steady  hands  may  guide  the  helm; 

But  none  may  ever  hope  to  gain 

The  farthest  shore  of  Fancy's  realm. 


JOHN  TYNDALL 

OBIIT  DECEMBER  4,  1893 

SERENE  on  cheerless  seas  he  drove  his 
bark, 

Skirting  with  dauntless  heart  the  ignor 
ant  shores; 

Crossed  roaring  reefs  and  set  his  finder's  mark 
Beyond  Imagination's  open  doors. 


The  oldest  mysteries  of  this  spinning  ball 
He  solved,  and  at  the  door  of  Silence  beat, 

Nor  was  dismayed  by  echoes  of  his  call 
That  broke  afar,  his  purpose  to  defeat. 


85 


The  potent  elements  of  giant  force, 
The  heat  and  light  girt  on  the  earth's 

great  tire 
He  watched,  as  fast  it  flies  its  channeled 

course 
Along  a  daily  changing  track  of  fire. 

Nor  as  a  dreamer  who  may  vigil  keep, 
Seeing  the  mighty  planets  spin  afar, 

But  with  precision  sounding  deep  on  deep 
And  linking  to  the  lamp  the  golden  star. 

High  on  the  muffled  line  of  ice  and  snow 
He  sought  where  others  had  not  dared  to 

seek; 
There  Knowledge  made  for  him  a  new  dawn's 

glow, 
Lighting  his  beacon  at  the  farthest  peak. 


86 


THE  DEAD  ARCHER 

MAURICE  THOMPSON,  OBIIT  FEBRUARY  15,  1901 

THROUGH  what  dim  alleys  of  the  wood 
Has  he,  the  keen-eyed  archer,  gone? 
By  what  bright  lakes  and  bubbling  streams 
And  o'er  what  golden  hills  of  dawn? 

Nor  here  nor  there  he  gains  the  trail 
His  eager  feet  have  known  of  old, — 

No  eye  may  mark  his  careful  track 
Printed  upon  the  winter  mold! 

Yet  all  the  faint  elusive  things 

His  spirit  knew  and  counted  good, 

Hark  to  the  archer  going  forth 

Through  the  still,  twilight-shadowed  wood. 

And  where  afar  the  dying  sun 
Burns  in  the  west  its  fiery  mark, 

Still  with  his  song  the  archer  goes, 
Unawed  into  the  Greater  Dark; 
87 


Nor  knows  that  lie  has  crossed  the  line 
Long  set  to  be  the  bound  for  men; 

Nor  knows  that  when  the  long  trail  ends 
He  never  can  return  again! 

His  woodman's  craft  at  last  has  failed, 
At  last  the  archer's  eyes  betray; — 

His  own  song  lures  him  down  the  path, — 
His  own  song  lights  the  darkening  way! 

The  echoes  fainter  fall  and  die, 

And  grieving  winds  from  cold  seas  blow, 
Moaning  above  the  gathering  dark: 

"It  was  not  time  for  him  to  go!" 

For  him  there  still  was  much  to  do 
To  stay  the  audit  hand  of  time, — 

New  bows  to  bend,  new  trails  to  seek, 
New  songs  to  wed  to  mellow  rhyme. 


88 


In  youth  the  bugle's  challenge  note 
Had  led  him  'mid  the  clang  of  war, 

But  happier  he  to  roam  the  fields 
An  archer  and  a  troubadour! 

When  clouds  hung  near  and  woods  were  gray 
In  olden  books  renowned  and  wise, 

He  learned  the  miracle  that  makes 
Bright  pages  of  the  dullest  skies; 

And  songs  he  gathered  from  o'er  seas 
With  his  own  music  woke  and  sang, 

Till  through  the  unhindering  western  hills 
Hymns  of  immortal  singers  rang. 

But  not  in  alien  soil  he  sought 
The  faded  trappings  of  romance; 

He  saw  by  western  elm  and  beech 

Fresher  enchantments  flash  and  dance; 


89 


And  dipped  his  blade  and  sped  his  shaft 
In  valleys  men  have  little  known, 

Hearing  faint  chimes  from  elfland  towers, 
Mingled  with  songs  the  wind  had  sown. 

His  heart  was  like  a  bow  of  yew 

That  nature  tempers  fine  and  strong, 

And  from  it  the  glad  arrows  went 
Keen  with  the  music  of  his  song. 

April  her  brimming  cloud  will  bring, 

And  May  her  odorous  charm  repeat, 

• 

But  here  no  more  the  happy  grass 
Will  leap  beneath  the  archer's  feet. 

Still,  in  far  glades  and  by  clear  streams, 
Where  soft  airs  blow  and  glad  birds  wing, 

The  blithe,  brave  arrows  of  his  song 

Through  the  bright  weather  fly  and  sing! 


90 


Spirits  that  guard  the  woodland  paths, 
And  lie  in  wait  beside  the  streams, 

Lead  him  where  he  shall  find  anew 

Green  meadows,  and  his  morning  dreams! 


91 


"SHE  GATHERS  ROSES" 

O   WINTER  night,  O  muffling  snows, 
From  dolorous  mountain  summits  blown! 
So  wild  the  night,  so  bleak  and  cold, 
'Twas  far  to  send  a  child  alone ! 

But  from  our  own  poor  watch  and  ward, 
And  our  weak  aims  and  needs  and  fears, 

Her  spirit  sped  and  left  behind 

The  untouched  harvest  of  her  years. 

Blessed  are  they,  who,  old  and  worn, 
Across  the  threshold  creep  at  last, 

With  many  a  lingering  glance  behind 
At  the  gray   shadow-peopled  past! 

But  thrice  more  blessed  they   who  look 

Scarce  through  the  door  Time  opens  wide, 

Then  back  into  the  Father's  arms, 

From  earth's  untranquil  strivings  hide. 
92 


And  whether  Heaven  indeed  may  be 

A  gated  city,  builded  strong, 
That  hath  no  need  of  stars  or  sun 

To  light  the  beatific  throng; 

Or  whether  in  the  home  of  spring 
The  haven  lie  of  flower  and  grass, 

O'er  which  the  elect  with  tranquil  mien 
Through  a  perpetual  morning  pass, 

I  know  not,  yet  however  fair 

May  be  God's  hidden  garden-lands, 

I  know  that  there,  with  happy  heart, 
She  gathers  roses  in  her  hands. 

The  autumn  gave  her,  and  her  eyes 

Knew  never  s-pring's  enchantment  sweet, 

Nor  saw  the  mighty  summer  stars 
Above  the  still  earth  throb  and  beat; 


93 


And  yet  she  loved  the  light,  and  turned 
In  childish  wonder  toward  its  glow, — 

She  loved  the  light !  and  now  has  seen 
The  light  perpetual  round  her  flow. 

Kingdom  of  Heaven,  toward  which  we  pray, 
Whether  alight  of  sun  or  star, — 

Kingdom  of  Heaven  toward  'which  we  yearn, 
'Tis  there  the  little  children  are! 

They  keep  for  us,  secure  and  sweet, 
Youth,  unassailed  by  winter's  rime, 

And  are  a  hostage  given  to  be 

Our  shield  against  the  wars  of  time. 

And  there  amid  the  ways  of  peace, 

Through  Christ's  love-lighted  garden-lands, 

She  wanders  with  untroubled  heart, 
And  gathers  roses  in  her  hands. 

January  30,  1901. 


VOICES  OF  CHILDREN 

VOICES  of  children  breaking 
On  eve's  delaying  hour; 
Voices  in  low  mirth  calling 

From  the  dusky  garden-bower; — 
They  mock  the  late  robin's  chanting, 

They  call  the  young  moon  in  glee, — 
And  through  the  sweet  lingering  twilight 

They  steal  in  to  me. 
Shy  girl  with  your  low  glad  laughter, 

Wee  boy  with  your  bubbling  mirth, 
The  odorous  garden  around  you 

Is  a  playground  'twixt  Heaven  and  earth! 
And  what  can  I  do  to  keep  you, 

O  sweetest  and  dearest  twain, 
Ignorant  of  earth's  harsh  discords 

And  free  of  its  stress  and  pain? 


95 


Soft  treble  and  golden  laughter 

Fall  faint  through  the  starry  eve; 
And  the  robin  in  the  maple 

Wings  home  and  ceases  to  grieve ; 
While  with  drowsy  step  and  reluctant 

To  their  cots  the  children  climb, 
Their  throats  still  bubbling  laughter 

And  their  lips  still  murmuring  rhyme. 
I  turn  away  to  the  garden 

Their  good  night  sweet  in  my  ears, 
And  ponder  and  dream  and  wonder 

At  the  mist-veiled  tide  of  years; 
Ah!  if  only  the  mirth  and  laughter 

From  their  hearts  might  never  die; 
If  the  sweet,  shy  awe  and  wonder 

In  their  gaze  might  always  lie! 
But  the  slim,  young  moon  fades  westward; 

The  night  wind  murmurs  low, 
And  above  me  the  planets  question 

What  man  nor  star  may  know. 


AT  THE  MONUMENT 

MY  little  child  about  the  Monument, 
Climbs  with  slow  step  and  awed  and 

wondering  eyes, 

And  in  soft  treble  questions  me  and  tries 
To  gather  something  of  the  shaft's  intent. 
And  as  on  me  her  trusting  gaze  is  bent 
And  she  repeats  her  many  "whens"  and 

"whys," 

She  hears,  as  of  some  fable  of  the  skies, 
Why  the  gray  column  toward  the  heavens  is 
sent. 

And  I  am  moved,  thinking  how  tales  of  wars 
Mean  not  so  much  to  her  as  foolish  rhyme 

In  her  sweet  ignorance  of  wounds  and  scars ! 
This  is  a  plot  to  play  in  for  a  time, — 

The  shaft  a  mighty  pillar  of  the  stars 
With  easy  steps  for  baby  feet  to  climb! 
97 


MARJORIE 

A^"  arch  of  blue  above  a  quiet  lake, 
And  still  low  shores  where  languid  rip 
ples  break: 

In  quiet  deeps  of  wood  the  brooding  June 
Watches  the  shadows  of  late  afternoon, 
And  o'er  the  water  idle  swallows  slip 
With  startled  cries,  to  find  their  wings  adrip ! 
But  pleasantest  of  all  it  is  to  see 
There,  in  the  swaying  hammock,  Marjorie, 
Repeating  rhythmic  tales  the  while  her  eyes 
Mirror  the  lake,  the  wood,  the  shore,  the  skies. 
Her  grave  voice  leads  afar  through  golden  ways 
Up  sunny  slopes  among  the  fair  dream  days, 
Where  trumpets  faintly  blow  from  guarded  walls 
And  Youth   (or  Marjorie!)  the  answer  calls. 


98 


HORATIO  AT  ELSINORE 

THERE  is  no  luck  at  Elsinore 
Since  death  came  by  and  barred  the  door. 
None  enters  now  save  ghost  of  thee, — 
(And  ghosts  of  every  lock  make  free!) 
The  bat  and  owl  now  rule  alone, 
And  spiders  weave  about  the  throne; 
Never  has  there  been  any  rest 
Since  jealous  hate  was  here  a  guest; 
And  never  more  shall  prince  or  king 
Know  love,  or  any  kindly  thing; 
So  through  the  chilling  autumn  rain 
I  call,  and  do  not  call  in  vain, — 
Good  night,  sweet  Prince! 

The  watchman  in  the  lonely  tower 
Calls  plaintively  the  passing  hour, 
And  I  who  walk  the  parapet, 
My  face  with  autumn  rain  made  wet, 
Have  bartered  all  my  hopes  for  fears, 
My  future  days  for  vanished  years. 

99 


I — I  alone  at  night  may  stand 
Where  once  the  Prince  held  fast  my  hand, 
Or  walk,  where  once  as  brothers  twain 
We  walked,  and  shall  not  walk  again; 
And  dreaming  thus  I  cry  to  him, 
Across  the  Deathland's  border  dim, 
Good  night,  sweet  Prince! 

I  promised  that  the  world  should  know 
The  wretched  crimes  that  wrought  his  woe; 
And  long  to  dull,  unwilling  ears 
Have  I  discoursed,  and  known  the  jeers 
Of  doubt  or  mere  contempt.     I  pause 
At  last,  and  leave  my  dead  friend's  cause! 
I  know  that  it  is  well  with  him 
Beyond  the  Deathland's  border  dim. 
Though  luck  be  not  at  Elsinore 
Her  shame  and  wrong  touch  him  no  more. 
So  through  the  cheerless  autumn  rain 
I  cry,  and  do  not  cry  in  vain — 
Good  night,  sweet  Prince! 


100 


LABOR  AND  ART 

WITH  bits  of  metal,  ivory  and  wood 
Man  makes  an  instrument  and  calls  it 

good; 

But  he  that  wrought  with  joy  the  fair  design 
Can  not  evoke  the  hidden  chords  divine. 


101 


THE  BLIND  BOYS 

I   SAW  three  blind  boys  in  the  park  at  play, 
Piling  with  murmurous  glee 
The  new-fallen  leaves  that  round  about  them 

lay, 

And  rearing  them  in  forms  they  could  not  see. 
Their  sealed  eyes  had  not  known 
The  spring's  leaves  when  new-blown, 
Caught  high  on  boughs  they  might  not  hold 

or  touch, 

Yet  they  found  sweet 
These  poor,  dead,  crumpled  things  about  their 

feet. 

And  passing  them  thus,  I  thought 
That  from  the  fair  green  tree  of  life  not  much 
Is  ever  within  sight  or  touch 
Through  the  bright  springs  and  summers  of 

our  years, — 


We,  too,  are  blind! — 

The  blindness  of  weak  faith  and  idle  fears, 

And  reaching  we  scarce  find 

The  budding  leaves  when  they  are  young  and 

sweet, 

And  gain  them  only  at  last 
When  on  the  earth  about  us  they  are  cast 
To  be  a  worthless  plaything  'neath  our  feet. 


103 


IN  THE  STREET 

1MET  a  dusky  foreign  woman,  young 
And  curiously  dressed, 
With  quaint  coins  hung 
Above  the  yellow  kerchief  on  her  breast; 
And  by  her  side 
A  little  child,  dark-eyed, 

Clutching  some  foolish  plaything  in  its  hand. 
Such  then,  I  thought,  as  these 
We  pick  as  flotsam  from  the  ancient  seas, — 
The  tossed  and  helpless  straws  upon  the  flood- 
And  bring  to  this  new  land, 
To  share  what  we  have  wrought  with  Saxon 

blood. 

And  you,  with  pedagogic  lore, 
Insistent  that  we  close  the  great  wide-open 

door, — 

Chide  me  not  in  hard  supercilious  tone! 
104 


I  am  as  proud  as  you 

Of  Saxon  liberty  and  Saxon  law, 

Promised  of  old  and  by  our  hands  reared  true, 

Yet  would  not  stand  apart 

While  under  Pharaoh  other  peoples  moan. 

That  half-barbaric  child 

With  fear  and  awe 

Of  long-dead  Caesars  lurking  in  its  heart, 

God  does  not  quite  disown, 

And  we  are  weak  if  we  may  be  defiled! 


105 


MIRIAM:    AT  A  CONCERT 

WHEN  the  great  chords  with  mighty 
tumult  rose, 

Far-borne  upon  the  trumpets'  brazen  cry, 
While  the  sad  'cellos  mourned  and  over  all 
As  from  spring  meadows  sang  the  violins; — 
When  on  dim  shadowy  frontiers  the  soul  heard 
Not  sound  nor  melody  nor  taunting  theme, 
But  challenge  from  a  fairer  world  than  ours, — 
'Twas  then  I  saw  you  through  the  listening 

throng, 

Lips  parted,  dark  eyes  wondering  and  grave, 
Head  reverently  bent  and  fingers  clasped 
To  stay  their  trembling.     What  did  you  behold 
On  those  near  coasts  of  golden  harmonies? 
Did  Israel's  fallen  harp  wake  in  your  blood 
A  hymn  of  glorious  deeds  on  sacred  plains? 
Heard  you  the  crash  of  trumpet-shaken  walls, 
106 


Or,  'neath  the  moan  of  viols  and  call  of 

drums, 
The  hosts  of  Zion  clanging  forth  to  war? 

Ah  me!  Your  snowy  throat  breaks  in  a  sob 
And  tears  are  bright  in  your  dream-haunted 

eyes 

As  the  bold  chords  climb  to  the  heights  and  die; 
For  you  have  seen  a  world-old  pageant  pass, 
And  the  dumb  sorrows  of  a  thousand  years 
Have  clutched  your  simple  girl-heart;  you  have 

known 
The  ghetto's  squalor,  cringed  beneath  the 

knout, 

Flinched  at  the  bargains  of  the  market-place, 
But  heard  from  Time's  gray  gulfs  the  ring 
ing  voice 

Of  Deborah,  lifting  Israel's  fallen  spears, 
Marshaling  the  starry  hosts  'gainst  Sisera! 


107 


AILEEN 

THE  gods  were  sad  the  night  that  she  was 
born: 

The  faery  lights  shone  over  darkling  moors, 
And  voices  whispering  through  the  lonely  hills 
Stole  seaward  to  dark  shores  and  told  the  waves, 
And  wave  and  star  conferred  in  wonderment. 
The  gods  were  sad  the  night  that  she  was  born. 

She  sang  to-night,  and  in  her  voice  I  heard 
Those  whispers  and  those  voices  and  beheld 
The  faery  lights,  and  from  the  plaintive  shore 
Saw  wave  and  star  commune.    .    .    .    She  does 

not  know 

How  in  her  eyes  the  ancient  marvels  burn, 
Or  that  the  dreams  flow  in  her  blood  like 

stars 


108 


On  quiet  floods  by  night.    There  at  the  harp 
Her  voice  caught  up  the  centuries  in  a  song 
As  old  as  heartache  and  as  young  as  morn; 
And  armour  rang  and  spears  were  glad  with 

blood    .    .    . 

Ah  me!  Those  eyes,  that  voice,  that  eerie  cry! 
The  gods  were  sad  the  night  that  she  was 

born! 


109 


TO  THE  SEASONS 

SEASONS  that  pass  me  by  in  varied  mood, 
As  on  the  imaging  land  you  leave  a  trace, 
Molding  sometime  a  delicate  flower's  sweet  face, 
Touching  again  with  green  the  somber  wood, 
Or  drawing  all  beneath  a  snowy  hood, — 
Am  I  not  worthy  as  they  to  find  a  place 
In  your  remembrance?     Am  I  made  too  base 
To  know  what  weed  and  thorn  have  understood? 

Fair  vernal  time,  I  need  your  quickening 

Even  as  the  sleeping  earth!    O  summer  heat, 
Make  flower  and  fruit  in  me  that  I  may  bring 
Full  hands  to  autumn  when  above  me  beat 
The  serious  winds;  and  winter,  make  me 

strong 
Like  the  glad  music  of  your  battle  song! 


110 


Poems 


M11U219 

953 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


